Tales of the Third Age
by Raksha The Demon
Summary: Here there be dragons and Dunedain, Elves and Eagles, love and longing, fear and joy, in ficlets on many subjects written in multiples of 100 words. too many characters to list, but Faramir and Aragorn do make multiple appearances. Complete.
1. A Mother's Touch

_A mother shares tender moments with the son who will one day be a mighty force in the history of the Third Age._

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"Mama, I'm back," chirped her son as he scurried through the entrance to their home.

Readfah uncurled and embraced her child. He was growing so fast! Still, he had much to learn, she thought, seeing the splotches of dirt that marred his beautiful pink and white skin.

"Didst thou crawl into the mud, then, my chick?"

The imp hung his head. "I was playing in the river."

"And thou couldst not wash the stink of dirt and smoked fish from thy skin?" Readfah clouted her little one. His refusal to whimper made her proud.

"Thou art the son of Scatha, scourge of the Grey Mountains," Readfah hissed, "Thy blood harks back to Ancalagon himself, greatest of Allfather Morgoth's drakes. Thou art not some dirt-delving dwarf."

"No son of mine shall be seen with mud all over his belly," she continued. "We stain ourselves only with the blood of foes and prey, not common dirt. A good dragon is fearsome, but never dirty!"

"Yes, mama." Poor chick, his eyes were large with shame.

"Now come here, my little wriggler," Readfah extended her wing to shelter him. Claws that could gut a horse began to flick the dirt from Smaug's perfect hide.

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**_AUTHOR'S NOTES:_**

Tolkien never revealed Smaug's parentage. But I thought he could be Scatha's get, given the 'S' in common. Smaug's exact age is never given, but since he said in The Hobbit that he was young when Lake-town was called Esgaroth, I figured he might well have been born in the Third Age.

_In_ **Letter #25** (The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien), Tolkien says that Smaug's name is from "the past tense of the primitive Germanic verb Smugan, to squeeze through a hole: a low philological jest." - hence Smaug's mother calling him 'wriggler' here.

Readfah is my own creation. Her name is an Anglo-Saxon word meaning "red-stained", which seemed to me to be the perfect name for a firedrake.

I have assumed that Smaug was born with paler skin; and grew red-golden scales as he aged. Tolkien speaks of his color as "red-golden" in The Hobbit, and also mentions his "pale belly".

I don't know what the dragons called Morgoth, but he created them and they did his bidding, so I figure that they might give him a title of respect such as Allfather (traditionally a title of Odin).

This double-drabble was originally written for the_ D Like A Dirty Dragon_ prompt of the B2MEM **_Middle-earth Alphabet Challenge_** at the H-A e-mail list and the _There 'n' Back Again_ LJ community.


	2. Some Dark Place

_A 500-word look at an early encounter between Aragorn and the Nazgûl. _

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Aragorn could not stop shaking.

He was safe now, riding behind Halbarad on the broad back of his kinsman's sturdy mare, within the protected bounds of Imladris, in full daylight. Soon they would reach the House of Elrond, and be welcomed with food and care and warm beds where they could sleep in peace.

The Riders had found him the night before, alone on a wooded hill high above a creek. Only three Riders had attacked, which was why he still lived today. He was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Heir of Isildur, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, rightful King of Gondor, and though he had weathered skirmishes with Orcs and even trolls, known the sharp tang of battle-alert, he had never felt terror until the wraiths had appeared, dark shapes barely divisible from the night that cloaked them. Their chill had frozen the very breath in his lungs. He had forced himself to move, to duck and roll and then hurl firebrands at them as he fled. Fortunately, he knew that hillside well, better than did the wraiths. He had run, dodged like a hare between rock and tree, finally reached the stream and stumbled through the current.

But he might well have died from the fear they brought, his heart hammering to break his chest wall, if not for Halbarad. Coming early to their meeting, Halbarad had heard his cries, seen the light of the brands he had thrown, and rode round and round in the dark trying to find him. Then Aragorn had staggered out of the water to collapse in his kinsman's very path. Halbarad had pulled him up and borne him away on the fleet-footed mare. The wraiths had lost two horses, and the one they had left could not carry them all with sufficient haste to catch her.

Aragorn let out a deep, shuddering breath. He was grateful that it was his kinsman and friend who now sat close before him. Halbarad would not reveal how the fear still, shamefully, gripped him. Hopefully, Halbarad had not noticed that Aragorn had soiled himself like a lad in his first battle. He remembered that moment, when the foremost wraith had advanced, reached out for him with night-shrouded gauntleted hands. The water had soaked Aragorn so thoroughly that the smell must have lessened by now. And the mare, whose nose was better than Halbarad's, did not seem to care.

"Easy now, Aragorn," Halbarad said. "See, they are opening the doors. We'll sleep soundly tonight, eh?"

"Indeed," he answered wearily, and forced himself to sit up straight, clasping the other's shoulder as the only show of gratitude he could manage for now.

Aragorn could speak no more. He was safe. He had escaped the Riders of Shadow, through Halbarad's aid and the mare's good speed. But what still set his heart racing and his hands to unmanly trembling, what brought a cold sweat to his brow was the certainty that sometime, somewhere, he would have to face the Riders again.

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'…_They will come on you in the wild, in some dark place where there is no help. Do you wish them to find you? They are terrible!'_

_The hobbits looked at him, and saw with surprise that his face was drawn as if with pain, and his hands clenched the arms of his chair. The room was very quiet and still, and the light seemed to have grown dim. For a while he sat with unseeing eyes as if walking in distant memory or listening to sounds in the Night far away._

The Fellowship of the Ring, Book I, Chapter 10: _Strider_

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**Author's Note:** Aragorn generally refers to the wraiths as _Riders_, rather than Ringwraiths or Nazgûl, etc. I place this encounter at about 2954-2955, after Sauron sent three Nazgûl to occupy Dol Guldur and before Aragorn began his great journeys.


	3. Your Father Loves You

_Denethor considers his younger son.  
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Look at you: a week in this world and already causing trouble.

Your precious mother nearly died to give you life; and still lies weakened. Against all odds, you survived, a small, mewling thing, and thrived, and now they tell me you will live. But she may not, my Finduilas, the light of my heart.

You should have been a daughter, who I could watch grow in beauty and grace and never have to send out to battle as I will one day send your brother, the joy of my heart. We deserved a little girl, not another soldier.

Do not gaze at me so, with that sage look in your clear grey eyes. I have seen it in the mirror; though in you it is just a baby trick. You know naught yet but hunger for milk and need for sleep. And you are entirely defenseless.

Fear not, my littlest son. For now thou art safe. I can protect thee from harm, and assure that thou hast all that thou requirest, even my thumb which thou seizest with such strength.

Would that I could keep thee safe forever! But even now, too close to our borders, our Enemy waits.


	4. IV Birthday Kisses

_Imrahil's observations on the nature of birthday preferences and fatherly love in the bereft House of Denethor._

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It was a quiet celebration: no minstrels or clowns or crowds of happy children, just the family, what remained of it, and platters of sweets. Since my sister's death, Denethor had known no joy, even in this, Faramir's sixth birthday celebration. Faramir received new clothing, a practice sword, and even a leather-bound book about the Elendili, his favorite heroes. He accepted them with his mother's well-remembered grace; but his smile never touched his solemn grey eyes.

I brought forth the special present that I had borne from Dol Amroth. I set down the cage and opened its door to release the gift. Faramir gasped in surprise when the puppy stepped cautiously out, a tiny creature with a soft blue-gray coat.

"It's just like Mousie!" Boromir exclaimed.

Faramir opened his hands beneath the pup's nose and let her sniff his fingers.

"You are right, Boromir" I said. "This is Mousie's puppy. She wanted her pup to come to live with Faramir. It is a bitch pup; Faramir, and will love you as her mother did if you are good and kind to her."

Mousie was my sister's adored Belfalas Greyhound. Denethor could not bear to set eyes on the bitch after Finduilas had left us. I had taken Mousie home with me; heavy with the litter Finduilas had not lived to see.

Two small sounds cheered the quiet chamber: the pup's excited squeak in response to Faramir's touch; and Faramir's answering laugh. He carefully lifted the puppy in his arms, holding her against his chest. The puppy nibbled the ends of Faramir's hair, then licked his chin.

I remembered my sister holding Mouse as a pup, giggling at her antics. Faramir had always loved his mother's dog; and had fretted at her departure, so soon after Finduilas' passing. But now, Faramir and Boromir smiled.

"Oh, Uncle, thank you; she is wondrous!" Faramir said, his eyes alight with joy. My heart warmed to see the lad so cheered; but I could not accept his thanks.

"Nay Faramir; she is not my gift. Your father told me to bring her here for you."

"Father?" Faramir looked up, utterly surprised, at his stern-faced father. "She is your gift?"

Denethor came to his son, and bent down, his shadow partially engulfing both boys. "Yes, my son. Your mother would have wanted you to have the animal. But you must care well for it, and train it, and keep it out of the Tower Hall."

"I will! Thank you, truly, Sire!" Faramir reached up toward the tall grim figure. Denethor stepped back slightly. Then he knelt and placed his hand on Faramir's head.

"A good birthday to you, Faramir" Denethor pronounced quietly, and withdrew to his seat. For a moment, Faramir looked wistfully after his father. But the puppy found Faramir's fingers then, and licked them, and rolled over as the child happily rubbed her belly.

Seeing the boy revel in the puppy's affection, I was saddened that Denethor could still find it so hard to bestow fatherly tenderness upon his younger son. They were both bereaved. Denethor had comforted Boromir, who had held his father's heart in his keeping since his birth. Yet Denethor was too immersed in his own sorrow to reach out to this quiet boy who was so much like him.

I looked back at Denethor. He smiled bleakly, his own eyes alight with unshed tears, as he watched Faramir. Ah. Denethor truly did love his second son. Why did he show it only through the gift of a foolish puppy that now gave Faramir the kisses his father could not spare?

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**Author's Note:** the puppy is an Italian Greyhound, a toy greyhound that is sweet and very graceful, and does resemble an extremely pretty mouse. They come in many colors; and have been lapdogs and the companions of kings (Frederick the Great had one). I often visualize Finduilas with an Italian Greyhound, as Denethor is not a dog person but might allow a small, elegant critter that is easy to keep clean.


	5. Foray

_Boromir learns that even the most prized fledglings must leave the nest if they are to grow._

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My little brother marches out today for the first time. He is fifteen years old and he goes with his age-mates in the Boys' Troop, on a scouting mission into the White Mountains. I took the same trip five years ago. The lads are shepherded by a company of Guards and taught many useful skills. But Faramir seems so young! It seems like only yesterday that I placed his small hand on the hilt of a wooden practice sword for the first time.

A flock of mothers rings the group of boys. Some of the ladies are grave, others teary-eyed. I cross the square to where Faramir stands proudly, regarding the Great Gate.

"Boromir!" He greets me happily. We both know that Father is too busy to see him off this day. To spare his new-soldier pride, I do not kiss him. Instead, we clasp hands as comrades.

Still, old habit remains strong. I look the boy over, from polished boots to newly cut hair. Faramir's face is freshly scrubbed, his modest uniform properly laced.

"Did you pack your cooking-pan?" _He's thin enough without missing meals because he forgot his cookware._

_"_Did you remember to sharpen your dagger and your sword?" _Orcs have been known to infest the mountains. And a warg or two. And wildcats._

"Boromir! I am not a baby!" Faramir complains with a sudden blush. My little brother has nearly attained full height and can look me straight in the eye.

I must not weaken his confidence. "No, you are not, Faramir. Keep quiet, follow the Captain's orders, and you will bring honor to our House."

"Yes, brother" He bows his head respectfully. Captain Turambar arrives, stepping briskly to the head of the company. In a few moments, they will file out the open Gate.

Butterflies flutter in my belly. Curse it, I am a soldier and a prince, not a lily-livered old woman! The chick must leave the nest sometime. _Come now_, I tell myself, _it is not as if the boy is going off to join the Ithilien Rangers_. We of the Guard, safely based in Minas Tirith, often call the Rangers "Orc-Bait". My stomach pitches again. I remember how word of Faramir's skill with a bow has already spread. The Rangers' scarred old Captain had watched my brother practice and told me that Faramir would be the best archer in Gondor one day. Udûn's Pits, the Rangers are always trying to poach good bowmen from the other companies!

_No! Not Faramir. He can finish learning the longbow here, and join the City's archers on the walls, where it's safe._

"Boromir?" asks my brother quietly. "You are pale. Is something amiss? They are calling us up now; I must depart."

He is so eager to prove his worth. The Steward's sons must meet future peril, not evade it. Faramir must go forth to whatever fate awaits him. It is not fit that I ease his way. For the first time, Faramir will sleep under the stars without his kindred's protection this night. At least he knows the stars; better than I, if truth be told!

"Nay. I just ate too fast at the nuncheon." The trumpet sounds. "Well, lad, take care of yourself. Watch your back."_ If danger threatens, be bold, but not reckless. Come home alive!_

Faramir bids me farewell, with shining eyes and a lift to his step as he strides out with his fellows. Despite his courage, my baby brother is still an untried young bird. But for the first time, I can glimpse in the fledgling the hunter he will become.

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**Author's Note:** the Boys' Troop of Minas Tirith is my personal invention; though, considering the presence of a small group of boys in the beleaguered White City in ROTK, the concept of lads receiving rudimentary military training prior to further service or other vocations does not seem far-fetched.


	6. Rites of Spring

_In spring, an Elf-maid's fancy can turn to all sorts of things_…

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The day opened fair and warm for late Spring, driving Arwen to a favored place in Lórien: the Falls of Nimrodel. There had been a journey from Caras Galadhon; Arwen and other ladies well-guarded by her grandparents' best warriors. Aragorn son of Arathorn had come too, his powerful strides easily matching those of the Galadhrim. The Man's presence pleased Arwen; he had grown up well from the charming youth she had met not long ago in the groves of Imladris.

Arwen hastened down the path, parted the reeds, and wriggled her feet out of her shoes into the blissfully cool waters of the Silverlode. She moved with practiced stealth; so as not to disturb any woodland creatures that might have come to slake their thirst.

But it was not the usual woodland creature who had preceded Arwen to the stream. It was Aragorn. The Dúnedain chieftain stood tall, his feet in the Silverlode, arms lifted beneath Nimrodel's waterfall. Arwen inhaled softly, struck by the beauty not of the silvery waters, but of the man who bathed in them. He was almost as tall as her father and grandfather, and was built with long limbs and hands that looked as graceful as they were strong. And those muscles, rippling under the Man's soaked skin, were larger than those of Elves, yet not as coarse as those of other Edain. Little wonder that he moved so well; for his legs and feet were finely molded.

The son of Arathorn leaned his head back slightly, the better to drench his hair in the falling waters. Arwen found herself licking her lips and wondering how it would feel to run her fingers through that dark mane as Nimrodel's rivulets now combed the long strands.

He stretched his entire body, raising those sculpted shoulders with a mighty reach. Arwen could see the man's thigh muscles contract with the motion. What a wonder of hidden power, hitherto veiled under clothing and boots!

And then the Man turned; revealing the front of his form – _Gracious Yavanna_! Here was hidden power indeed, Elrond's maiden daughter thought. Arwen had seen such parts before on the bodies of her father's injured patients and her own swimming brothers. This sight was different; made her feel different; though she was not exactly sure why.

Perhaps, Arwen decided with a wicked smile as she retreated from the bank, she would find out someday.

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**Author's Note:** Technically, this story occurs before _Birthday Kisses_, within a year or two, approximately, of Faramir's birthday, since that's when I surmise that Aragorn turned up in the Golden Wood and renewed his acquaintance with Arwen. The story is a bit derivative, given that I've done more than one Faramir-gets-wet story; but you can all blame Lindahoyland; who requested a _Bathing Aragorn_ story.


	7. Under the Eyes of the Evenstar

_The meeting of Boromir and Arwen was unrecorded by Bilbo, Frodo, or other historians. What did the Lady of Rivendell think of the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor_?

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"Do all Men of the South look like him?"

"I would dearly like to find out!"

"He is not unhandsome, though his form is coarser than that of our kind."

"Aye, but it seems quite strong. Why, Estel looked spindly beside him."

The silly creatures dawdled at the open door, ogling our guest as if he were bathing for their amusement. And, as I had good cause to know, Estel was as well-made as this stranger. I cleared my throat.

"Oh, Lady Arwen," Gwaloth finally noticed my presence and blushed. Merilin and Lossael tittered softly.

I was relieved to see that their chatter had not disturbed our guest. Far from it, the Man's head was nodding; another minute and he would drown in the tub!

I led them into the bathing chamber. "I am Arwen, daughter of Elrond, lord," I greeted him; "My ladies bear towels and robes and will leave them here for you. Fresh raiment shall be brought to you in the morning; and your own garments shall be cleaned."

Though I stood far enough from the tub that our guest would feel no embarrassment, I easily descried his features. He was startled when he saw me, but he quickly mastered his surprise.

"And I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain-General of Gondor," he replied proudly in somewhat clipped Sindarin. "I thank you, lady. It is long since I have enjoyed such comfort."

I knew who he was; none enters the house without my knowledge. In truth, I had known of him for years. Little wonder that he could affect such pride while soaking in a tub! This was the heir of one of the greatest Númenorean lines in the South. _This_ was one of the three men who stood between Estel and Gondor's winged crown, and so between me and my dearest hope.

It took all my will to keep my fists unclenched. I had heard of this Boromir's opposition to Estel at the Council, when by rights he should have knelt to him. I veiled my hostility and watched my ladies assist him in washing his tangled black hair.

When they finished, the man raised his head. I noticed lines of hardship in his face, the deep circles under his grey Dúnedain eyes. The Steward's son had courage to match his pride. He had travelled far, braving peril and loneliness, to find help for his realm. Here he had discovered as many questions as answers, and the man who was destined to supplant him.

He might bear watching later, but he certainly deserved kindness now.

"You are most welcome, Lord Boromir," I said, with a heartfelt smile.

He smiled back. I could see why my ladies thought him fair. I wondered if a wife awaited him in their White City. Then I knew, with the occasional foresight inherited from my father, that it would be better if Boromir had no wife, so that there would be one less to mourn him when he did not return.


	8. Far From Home

_On the last night of 3018, what do Boromir and Frodo find they have in common_? (a drabble that can be read as a companion piece to my story _The Burning of the Year_, but also stands on its own)

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As Mettarë night wanes, I don my cloak and step from the Hall of Fire, seeking solitude.

The sound, fair but still strange to me, of Elves singing, follows me. I think of the songs sung even now in Minas Tirith, and my father lighting the year-fire without me. My hand reaches toward the uncaring stars, then falls, empty and cold.

My name is called. Turning, I see the Ring-bearer.

"The Elven songs are fair," the halfling says, coming to my side. "But Yuletide in the Shire is more cheery; and I miss it."

We both are far from home.


	9. Serpent's Ease

_The rise and fall of Gríma son of Galmod, in 300 words_.

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It was easy for a snake to snare a King. Théoden was lonely, and his son too busied with protecting the Mark to comfort his ailing father. The King's headstrong nephew rode out constantly, forsaking the stale air of Meduseld. Like most unlearned Rohirrim, the King was easy prey to the power of words. The King was amused by his scribe's clever tales. The scribe then offered to help his Lord read and write letters to Gondor. As easily as a tired warhorse bows its proud head to the rider's will, the Lord of the Mark was tamed by Gríma's soft speech. The cloddish horsemen knew not that the Worm they scorned was in truth a subtle snake, not until it was too late.

Gríma the scribe rose to be Théoden's most trusted counselor and sit by his very throne. Fortune's stroke and his own left the King and the darkened Hall and its Lady alone, within the serpent's coils. Another week, a month, and the weakling King would join his dead son, and then none could gainsay Gríma, nor keep him from the prize he coveted above all else, the fairest daughter of the House of Eorl. It had been so easy, after all!

Then Gríma was flung from the Hall where he had ruled in fact if not name, robbed of his ease and chased from Edoras like a stinking rat, in front of the Lady he had craved. They would all pay for his humiliation, his exile. If he must go forth to his true master and leave his pride in the Golden Hall, he would see it burned to ashes, and the blood of Eorlingas run red from Edoras to Helm's Deep! Perhaps a serpent cannot truly walk among men. But he can still slay them.


	10. The Tides of the World

_Now as the sun went down Aragorn and Eomer and Imrahil drew near the City with their captains and knights; and when they came before the Gate Aragorn said:_

'_Behold the Sun setting in a great fire! It is a sign of the end and fall of many things, and a change in the tides of the world. _Return of the King, **Ch. 8: The Houses of Healing**

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Aragorn nearly staggered with weariness as he left Minas Tirith, worn from the long night and all that had come before it. But his heart soared. He had delivered the City that his sires helped to build, the City he had come to love when he lived in it so long ago. He had kept his pledge to Boromir.

He had saved lives by his own hand, his own will. He had fought bladeless battles throughout the long night, in the candle-lit chambers of the Houses of Healing and later, the rooms in the homes of the City, where he had drawn men and women out of the Shadow's foul grip. Each healing had taken a little more of his strength and had given him back a little more hope.

Elrohir and Elladan flanked Aragorn now, casting worried glances towards him. Their concern warmed his heart, but he was well enough, and would walk out of the City on his own legs, not supported or carried.

At last they reached his own tent. Aragorn fumbled with the lacings on his tunic; while the Peredhil helpfully removed his boots. A brazier had been lit, a bottle of wine set out with cheese and a few small winter apples on the table. He took a few bites of an apple, but could not finish it, or take more than a few sips of the wine, that, he suddenly noticed, was a prize vintage from the cellars of Imladris.

Stripped down to breeches and stockings, Aragorn collapsed on the camp bed. Someone pulled the furs over him - Elrohir. His foster-brothers' hands touched his face in blessing. Then the twins withdrew.

Aragorn's thoughts raced almost too fast for him to fully heed them.

The Kings, dead - Angmar's cursed lord; the valorous Théoden; and the King of the Dead who had come at Aragorn's summoning.

Denethor, slain by his own hand. Hirluin, Grimbold, countless others of hill and plain and coast.

Halbarad! His friend and kinsman had not gone alone, with so many valiant souls to bear him company beyond the Circles of the World, and the Witch-King's destruction to mark the terrible glory of the day.

Yet there were many who lived because Aragorn and the Grey Company had come down from the north, bringing Halbarad to the death he had foreseen: Faramir, the steadfast Captain and Steward; bitter, brave Éowyn; Merry, whose resilient reclamation of life amazed him; and then the many men of Gondor and even Rohan who had awakened from the Black Breath at Aragorn's call…The White City itself, all its people saved from slaughter, from young Bergil to Húrin and old Ioreth, because of the journey that had claimed Halbarad's life. Weregild for Halbarad?

Nay, even ten thousand lives could not replace his kinsman! But the survival of those who lived today, and the deaths of their foes, would signal the Enemy who had caused Halbarad's death that His victory was not certain after all.

Aragorn grasped the hilt of Andúril, sheathed at his side. _Your time will come, Sauron, sooner than you think._

Through the flaps of the tent, Aragorn glimpsed the paling of the sky. The sun would soon come forth, undimmed by Sauron's spite. So much had happened between Anar's last rising and the approaching dawn. It had been a day of reckoning.

_Day of death, day of life renewed. Day of despair. Day of hope._

_Day of darkness. _

_Day of destiny._

_The last day. The end of Gondor as it was; the day that Minas Tirith did not fall._

And now, a new day.


	11. What I Have Found

_As darkness threatens the White City, Faramir realizes an important truth._

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There was every reason to despair. His city stood ghostlike, bereft of most of her defenders. The combined forces of Rohan and Gondor and the surviving Dúnedain had marched off into the Enemy's very maw, led by Mithrandir and the King. His brother and father were dead. He remained, the last Steward of Gondor, in a city that awaited a terrible end.

Faramir did not despair. He had lived and fought without hope for months now. But he had never given up, not even during the terrible darkness of his last mission, not when he was lost within the dark vale from which the King had saved him, not even when his heart had seemed to crack with sorrow at his father's cold fury. Duty could be a bulwark as well as a burden.

Soon he would leave the Houses of Healing to take up his office. Chances were high that their armies would fall, that the Ring-bearer would fail. Still, he would bide here, and hold the City until the Enemy took it or the King returned to claim it.

He would not despair, but in the past few days, he had become aware of a rising tide of doubt and fear swelling within him at the thought of inescapable death. Life had become sweeter of late, a strange notion, since he had lost those that he had loved the most. He was used to facing death calmly, to inspire the good men under his command. Now, Faramir's once steady heart rose and fell like a ship on a stormy sea.

He awoke in the mornings with a restless stirring, impatience to get up, to walk in the gardens with his few companions. And when he left their company, or, more usually as it seemed to be, her company, he oft found himself whistling or humming a pleasant song. Boromir would have said that he was suffering from a surfeit of minstrelsy. Then he would see Mordor's dark, foul-smelling clouds looming over the Ephel Dúath, and clench his fists. All the hope and gladness in the world could be doomed in just a short span of days.

Faramir turned, hearing the familiar sound of wind-rustled cloth. Éowyn came through the stone archway, clad in white, smiling slightly as she beheld him. Sunbeams broke suddenly through the clouds, crowning the pale gold of her hair. A pang of joy pierced his heart so sharply that it hurt. He had never seen anything so beautiful, or so dear.

He knew then that he loved Éowyn. Though they stood on the brink of change, facing eternal darkness or the triumph of light, he loved her. The tumult within him did not subside, yet he was relieved to finally understand it.

He would not tell her of his certainty, not yet. She had only just come to trust in their friendship. But this love that he had found in such fell days was itself an unexpected blessing, whether or not it was shared.

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_What do you look for, Eowyn?__'__ said Faramir._

'_Does not the Black Gate lie yonder?__'__ said she. __'__And must he not now be come thither? It is seven days since he rode away.__'_

'_Seven days,__'__ said Faramir. __'__But think not ill of me, if I say to you: they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Eowyn, I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found.__' _ROTK,_**The Steward and the King**_


	12. Sing All Ye People!

_What deeper meaning did Faramir hear in the great Eagle's song_?

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I could scarcely believe the surge of sunlit warmth and hope that sprang up suddenly in the wake of the Shadow's departure. Then a great golden Eagle flew out of time-lost legends and circled the City walls. And it sang!

A voice like unto that of Men issued from the Eagle's beak, the words ringing like bells in my heart. As I listened, I thought I heard my father's voice in that first verse.

_Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor, _

_For the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever, _

_and the Dark Tower is thrown down._

Éowyn, pressed closely against me, lifted her head to hear the tidings pealing out in the warming air. I caught my breath as the Eagle sang the second verse; for I discerned Boromir's beloved voice raised within it.

_Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard, _

_for your watch hath not been in vain, _

_and the Black Gate is broken, _

_and your King hath passed through, _

_and he is victorious._

I could do naught but listen in wonder. The third verse was sung by a voice as newly mirthful as a wind of spring blowing through trees. It sounded like Mithrandir, who had fallen but then returned from death to help us.

_Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West, _

_for your King shall come again, _

_and he shall dwell among you _

_all the days of your life. _

The eagle descended and hovered just above us. The last time a flying creature of such unnatural size had hunted me, it had brought terror that had nearly stopped my heart. But this majestic beast looked down at me; I saw its eyes, full of wisdom and truth and a shining hope. The Eagle circled us once, the unveiled Sun gilding its mighty wings. Then it sang out its final verse in a voice I had never heard before and can never forget:

_And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed, _

_and he shall plant it in the high places, _

_and the City shall be blessed. _

_Sing all ye people!" _

Since childhood I have been schooled to set an example of strength and constancy as a Lord of Gondor. But now my joy rose within in me like a fountain and flowed forth in tears, mingled with Eowyn's own, as we stood with arms and hands entwined. As the Eagle soared high and away, I sang his song to all who could hear my lesser voice. The people of the White City spilled out of doors, threw wide their windows, and answered in kind. The song rang from the Citadel in ever-widening circles down to the Gates and out, it seemed, to the very edge of the Anduin. And in those splendid moments, my happiness for the Shadow's end was equaled by the certain knowledge that I could win Éowyn's heart in this new and changed world.

The old tales tell us that the great Eagles were the messengers of the Valar, the Lords of the West. Surely the golden harbinger who sang us news of victory belonged to that legendary race, perhaps Thorondor or one of his sons. I wondered though, at the last voice that had sang from the Eagle's beak: a voice as kind as a brother's, yet stronger than mountains, gentle as a rippling brook yet powerful as the winter wind.

We will never know whether it was the voice of Manwë, Lord of the Air and highest among the Valar, that came from the Eagle's throat. But we will never forget the song.

* * *

**Author's Note:** All italicized verses quoted directly from _The Steward and the King_, The Return of the King.


	13. Between Shadow and Sun

_Ioreth remembers March 25. _ (features a cameo by Pippin)

______________________________________________________________________________

I shall never forget what happened on that day of days. Our armies had departed to the East, some said on a fool's errand, to follow the Lord Elfstone into Mordor. We had no word of them. The pale sky was darkening, and a fell wind had sprung up, bringing more than the chill of weather to rattle my old bones.

Well, rain might fall and the wind might blow, but the sick still had to be looked after, so up I went towards the walls with the messenger-boy Bergil, bearing possets for Lord Faramir and the Lady of Rohan. Why they would brave that cold wind and evil sky to stand there and risk sickening, I did not know, but if the Lady were a quiet, sensible lass she never would have taken up arms and slain the captain of the wraiths and then where would we all be, eh? And our dear Lord Faramir, what was he doing out of his bed? Ah, young folks. Sometimes they don't care about making more work for the old. I suppose I could understand. It was good to step out of the Houses when one could, and take fresh air. I loved to sit on the bench in the herb-garden myself at times, but not when such a cold wind came sweeping out of the dark East.

What is that you say, dearie? Why was I was sent to bring them the possets? The Warden wanted the Lord Faramir and the Lady Eowyn to return to the fireside, lest they catch cold. If he had sent a young messenger lad alone, the boy would not have had the natural authority of my venerable years to command them to return. I am not just your loving granny, my girl; I have worked at the Houses for more than two score years and my eyes are still sharp and my hands still strong.

Now where was I? Yes, well, young Bergil and I wended our way to the walls, when suddenly the sky turned grey. The wind blew even colder. All looked drear and dark, even the white stones of our fair city. And all the sounds, the little chirps of the birds, the sounds of people moving about in the Houses, the very rustle of the leaves on trees stopped right then, at that moment. Even the wind ceased to move.

I think my heart began to jump in my breast, lass; but I couldn't hear it beat. Bergil and I stopped in our tracks then; we both took such fright together. Bergil leaned against me. I think he missed his mother then. Time seemed to stop, as strange as it might sound to you. All of Middle-earth seemed to be waiting.

Lord Faramir and the Lady Éowyn saw it first, and raised their heads, so we looked up too, towards the mountains to the east. A dark Shadow rose up, dearie; higher and higher, so high that the very mountains looked like a row of fallen helmets at the feet of some tall, tall warrior. Lightnings flashed about the darkness. I thought then, for an instant, that I saw an eye within that great Shadow, looking down at us, wishing evil towards the entire world.

I felt dizzied, though mind you, I wouldn't have fallen, even if Bergil had not been there with me. I thought of your mother and your brother, sent away weeks before to Lamedon for safety, and you just a wee thing in your mother's belly; and tried to say farewell in my thoughts.

"Do not fear, Dame Ioreth," Bergil squeaked out, setting the posset set on the ground and taking up his little dagger. "I will defend you!" Such a brave lad, that one. I put an arm around him as we watched that Shadow rise, as high as the Sun it seemed. Then there was a deep rumbling sound, rushing in to fill the silence. The very walls of the City trembled.

I cannot remember when a sigh was heard, it appeared to me from everywhere, the skies and earth and waters too. I could hear my heart beat again, fast as can be, like a tiny mouse skittering for shelter. That was when the wind roared up again, but not so chill, just strong. The towering Shadow began to fall, and the wind swept it up and away, and we never saw such a thing again.

The Sun returned, and the day was fair and filled with light once more. I looked up to the walls and saw the Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn standing close together, raven and gold hair flying in the wind.

What do you mean, is that all? Why, you silly lass, what more could there be? The Shadow had departed! I had never thought to see such a day!

Oh yes, the possets. I thought that the lord and lady might find some a few more minutes of the fresh, warming air to be as healing as the possets, which had gone cold anyway. So I took up the possets and went back down to the Houses to freshen them. Bergil would have stayed with me to carry them, but then the _Perian_, Meriadoc came out, crying and laughing in joy and embraced Bergil. They were dancing a jig together as I opened the door and entered the Houses.


	14. Daybreak

_An awakening on the morning after the doomsday that wasn't._

* * *

He awakened with a pounding head and a gladdened heart.

For a moment, he could not remember how either condition had come to pass. Then the memories of an enormous singing Eagle, its joyful tidings, and the revelry that had followed, opened in his mind like the pages of a great tale of old.

The sky had darkened; the Eagle had come; and the earth had shaken with the force of their Enemy's Fall!

Faramir of Gondor arose. Opening the windows, he looked for the first time upon a dawn free of Shadow. And he had lived to see it!


	15. Reflections in the Smoke

_Shortly after Sauron's fall, Gandalf ponders his adversary's fate and his own_. (_First Place_, **MEFA -** Middle-earth Fanfiction Awards - **2008**)

* * *

The One Ring was destroyed. He had watched the one he had been sent to Middle-earth to cast down rise a last time in the moment of defeat, and had spared Sauron, who he had once called by other names, and even 'brother', a last moment of sorrow mingled with contempt. Two weary hobbits had seemingly ended Sauron's existence with the flick of a wrist, the spinning of a small circlet of unholy metal into the fire from which it came.

Mairon, Sauron, Annatar, Artano, Aulendil, Gorthaur, all the names his brother had hoarded in his long life, had amounted to so much dust, reflected the wizard who had gathered not a few names himself. Sauron the Fool! Even a cat does not leave the pantry when the mice are at large. At the end of so many Ages, Sauron had grown only in arrogance, leaving Orodruin unguarded, to his ruin.

Now, hours after their Enemy's fall and the saving of Frodo and Sam, Sauron's onetime brother sat by the fire, blowing rings of smoke from his pipe. Around him, the victorious armies of the West drank, told tales, stood on watch, and dozed. He had delivered the Ring-bearers into Aragorn's healing hands, and watched as Pippin, too, was tended by the returned King. There was no more that he could do for them.

For the first time in two thousand mortal years, the wizard sat purposeless, his old shoulders lightened of their heavy burden. It felt strange to have no course left but the path to the West. Narya lay quietly on his finger; its fires cooled. His own power slept, like Ulmo's waves at low tide.

Come home, Olórin; the wind seemed to sigh. He would revel, make farewells, and obey; for Gandalf was needed here no more.

* * *

**Author's Notes **(on the matter of Sauron's names)**:**

Papers compiled by Tolkien in the 1960's have yielded an original name for Sauron, before he gave his allegiance to Melkor – that of _Mairon_, which means "the Admirable", or "The Admirable One". This information was published in Parma Eldalamberon 17, p. 183; and was unearthed for me by Nath, via the HASA Research Forum.

_Annatar _(meaning "Lord of Gifts"), _Artano _("high-smith"), and _Aulendil_ (one who devotedly serves the Vala Aule) are names that Sauron used during his Second Age sojourn under false pretenses with the Jewel-Smiths of Eregion, according to **Note #7**, _The History of Galadriel and Celeborn_, Unfinished Tales.

Thanx also to Elena Tiriel, tireless lore-seeker (and lore-master) of HASA.


	16. Stewardship

_Who will inherit Gandalf's greatest responsibility_?

* * *

I watched my young friends as we took our ease atop the highest hill of Emyn Arnen.

Aragorn looked out toward the distant White City. Nearby, Frodo dozed against a broad oak. Gimli jested with Peregrin and Meriadoc.

Faramir, our host at this site of his future home, stood with Legolas and Samwise. They spoke ardently of growing green fields and gardens, of flowers common to their lands, of preserving old trees while planting new crops.

When I left for Valinor's untroubled shores, this Man and Elf and Hobbit would indeed be worthy to inherit my long stewardship of Middle-earth.

* * *

"_But I will say this: the rule of no realm is mine, neither of Gondor nor any other, great or small. But all worthy things that are in peril as the world now stands, those are my care. And for my part, I shall not wholly fail of my task, though Gondor should perish, if anything passes through this night that can still grow fair or bear fruit and flower again in days to come. For I also am a steward. Did you not know?"_

Gandalf, _Minas Tirith_, **RETURN OF THE KING**


	17. Roots and Branches

_A 400-word encounter: A new Steward, a new White Tree, and four hobbits, poised between past and future._ (**First Place, MEFA 2006**)

* * *

The four hobbits sat by the new White Tree. The afternoon sun was bright, the air cleansed by a breeze drifting down the mountain's shoulder. The hobbits chattered merrily among themselves.

Faramir prepared to hail them when he heard his own name arise in their conversation.

"You've told me about Boromir's fall, and I know he was laid to rest in the elven-boat," Frodo said. "But what happened to Captain Faramir's father, the Steward Denethor?"

Pippin's usually cheery voice quieted as he answered. Standing inside the White Tower's entrance, Faramir clenched his fists. He should be accustomed to the tale by now, and to the exclamations, the comfort, that inevitably followed. Yet the thought of seeing pity in the eyes of Frodo and Samwise suddenly stung him as sharply as an arrow. His brother had attacked the Ring-bearer. Their father had succumbed to despair, had huddled in this same tower while the City burned and its people needed their Steward, and then.... 'Twas still painful to think on it, so he stopped. But if he was tainted by the madness of his father and brother, was he fit to join the company of heroes before him? Was he fit to steward the realm of this new-found White Tree and its new-made King?

"Poor Mr. Pippin, you had a dreadful time of it," Samwise replied. "But you were brave. I'm sure that Boromir would have been proud of you. As for the Lord Denethor--" The hobbit paused, then cupped some soil from the Tree's bed in his hand. "A tree is more than its roots, you know. A proper tree comes from the right soil, and sunshine and rain, along with strong roots. And if some nasty blight damages roots that were once good, young trees can be uprooted and planted in new soil, like this 'un here." He poured the dirt from his hand back onto the ground, then patted it down, and smiled up at the White Tree.

Faramir remembered the weariness on his father's harsh face when last they spoke. He thought of the forests of Ithilien, the land that was now his princedom. Squaring his shoulders, he strode out to meet his four small friends.

Samwise looked up as Faramir approached, and spoke again: "Quality can't be hidden, not in trees, nor in men."

"Nor in hobbits, Master Samwise," Faramir answered warmly as he joined them.


	18. Better Days Ahead!

_Down and out after the Ring War, Shagrat gives a pep talk to his dispirited comrades_. (**Winner, First Place, MEFA 2007**)

* * *

So you think we're licked? Just 'cause Lugbúrz fell and the Enemy won the day?

Hah! They didn't even win fair! It were two thieving rabbits who brought down the Boss, not those high and mighty tarks. They dropped His lucky trinket into the Crack, everybody knows it now.

What's that you say? We're stuck in this freezing cave, while the tarks are prancing about our Tower like they own it?

They think they've won, all the tarks and horsemen and bloody-handed Elves. But enough of us slipped past 'em. We don't die easy. We'll lay low, or go where they need fighting strength, maybe the East. Men will still give us their gold and their women.

Nah, I don't mean women to eat. You still hungry? Have another finger-bone, there's still some meat on it. Karchak won't miss it, har har.

What I meant was, women have other uses too. And long after we're done, Uruk blood will run in the veins of those soft fools. Uruk blood, our blood, will howl in the night; like wolves at the door.

So buck up, lads! Tighten yer belts! Stick with Captain Shagrat and we'll see better days ahead! Ya hoi!

*****The End*****

* * *

**Author's Notes: **

The word _tark _is used twice in the LOTR text, (in the same speech) by the orc Snaga, who Shagrat bullies in Return of the King. According to Appendix F (Return of the King), _tark_ is an Orkish debasement of a Quenya word, _tarkil_, used in Westron to denote one of Númenorean descent. For orcs, _tark_ meant 'man of Gondor'.

_Lugbúrz_ is the Black Speech word for Sauron's Dark Tower (a.k.a. Barad-dûr)

There will be another edition of Tales of the Third Age at some point; also Tales of the Fourth Age. I hope my readers on this site have found these vignettes enjoyable


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